This was written for a prompt over at hoodie_time: Dean quits smoking because Sam insists it's going to kill him if he doesn't. After successfully quitting for three weeks, Dean comes down with the worst chest infection he has ever had. Glowering ensues.
Dean glances over at the bathroom door and is relieved to still hear the shower running, and quickly slips outside the hotel room, leaning against the wall just next to the door. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, followed closely by a lighter, and has just taken his first smoke when the door bursts open and Sam storms out of the apartment.
"Dean!" He bellows, and then a massive hand smacks the cigarette from Dean's hand, sending it flying to the ground.
"What the hell, Sam?" Dean yells, turning to face his massive brother. "What's your problem?" Dean shoves Sam in the chest, hard, so that Sam steps back into the hotel room. Dean follows and slams the door shut behind him.
"My problem? My problem is that you're killing yourself!" Sam yells, drawing himself up to full height.
"We're gonna die sooner or later, I might as well enjoy the time I've got!"
Sam's quiet after Dean says that, his anger seeming to deflate. Dean tries not to feel bad despite the sad look Sam throws his way.
"Look, Dean, I know that. But you don't need to speed things up, man. That stuff is toxic."
Dean glares at his little brother, refusing to give in. No way.
"What's gonna happen when you can't back me up because you're hacking your lungs up, huh? Or when you're out of shape and I have to come back and save your ass?"
Dean recognizes that Sam is playing dirty, but the guilt still hits him hard. Damn Sammy and his puppy dog eyes.
"Fine," he huffs finally, holding the cigarette pack out like a peace offering to Sam. Sam takes it with less excitement than he could have, and Dean is grateful that at least he isn't rubbing it in.
"You'll feel better, Dean, I promise," Sam says. He's so damn sincere about it that Dean is torn between punching him in the face and crying.
"Yeah, well, I don't feel bad now," Dean mumbles. Sam looks at him fondly and shakes his head.
"Whatever. You'll still feel better."
A few days later, Dean is definitely not feeling better. In fact, he's feeling pretty crappy.
Somehow, Sam knows all of his hiding places; The empty cartridge box he'd stocked with smokes is mysteriously gone, the pack he'd shoved into his FBI suit jacket is gone, even the pack he'd rolled up in his oldest pair of boxers in an attempt to dissuade Sam from looking for them are missing.
Overall, Dean is not pleased.
He's really not pleased when Sam comes home from the store with a paper bag and a huge grin on his face.
"I got some stuff to help you," he announces, plopping the bag onto the small coffee table. Dean barely looks up from the TV and grunts something unintelligible. Sam doesn't seem fazed and starts pulling items from the bag.
"Okay, so I wasn't sure whether you would prefer the patch or gum, so I got both," Sam says, handing both things to Dean. Dean looks at them with a disgusted look.
"A patch? You really think I'm going to wear one of these?"
Sam ignores him and hands him a small spiral notebook.
"What the hell is this? I've got a journal, Sam."
Sam smiles, all patience and sincerity. Dean wants to punch him.
"It's a craving journal, Dean. You write down every time you get a bad craving and what you were doing, so we can figure out your triggers."
Dean holds back a yell and lets out a measured breath, then shakes his head.
"Hell no, Sam. I'm not going to be a whiny bitch about this. If I'm quitting, I'm quitting cold turkey. Got it?"
"Then I won't see you looking for anymore cigarettes?" Sam says. "No more hiding them?"
"No more hiding them," Dean grumbles, then flips Sam off for good measure.
Sam just laughs.
Dean is nothing if not a man of his word. Three weeks after he said he'd quit, he's quit. Hasn't touched a single cigarette, and the nicotine patches and gum remain unopened. Of course, Dean's grumpier than hell and even more restless than usual, but Sam seems to be taking it in stride.
So when he wakes up the 22nd day after he quit (but who's counting?) and his chest hurts like a son of a bitch, Dean is ready to throw in the freaking towel.
"Got something," Sam announces as Dean walks out of the bathroom. Dean grunts and stifles a cough, rubbing in irritation at his head. Sam probably assumes it's another one of his pissy withdrawal symptoms, because he uncharacteristically doesn't say anything about it.
"Where?" Dean asks, stripping off his dirty shirt and ruffling through his duffle to find a clean one.
"Montana. Some town called Kalispell. Bunch of hunters and hikers have gone missing in the past couple months."
"Wendigo?" Dean asks, finally finding a good shirt.
"Probably a werewolf," Sam says, shaking his head. "Patterns match up."
"Awesome," Dean says, even though he thinks it's anything but. He's still pretty restless, that's at least a day's drive, and he doesn't feel great. He coughs pathetically, wincing when it makes pain shoot through his chest. Sam looks up and frowns, but other than that doesn't acknowledge Dean's cough.
"If we leave by tonight, we should be able to make it in time for the full moon," Sam says, and Dean nods miserably. Great.
"Kay. Let's pack up and hit the road," he says, trying to sound excited. Sam eyes him suspiciously, then nods.
Twenty minutes later, they're in the car, hitting the road, and Dean is miserable. Usually nothing soothes him more than a ride in his baby, but his head hurts and he wants a damn cigarette and his chest is freaking tight and he won't stop coughing-
"Dean, you okay?" Sam asks, looking over at him from the passenger seat.
"Peachy," Dean grumbles, conscious of the way he's tapping frantically at the steering wheel. He forces his fingers to still, then shoots Sam a strained smile.
"You've been trying not to cough all morning," Sam points out.
"No I haven't," Dean grouses, turning back to the road.
"Yes, you have."
"Haven't, damn it!"
Sam doesn't answer again, just gives Dean a look. Dean loses what little control he had.
"Okay, you know what? I feel like shit! I can't stop coughing and my chest is freaking tight!"
Sam shakes his head. "You should've said something, man. We could've waited a day."
"No. No! You don't get to say anything, mister if-you-stop-smoking-you'll-feel-better."
"Is that what this is about?" Sam asks, disbelief clear in his voice. "Dean, you got a cold. That's not related to you smoking-"
"Shut up, Sam," Dean growls, dangerously close to losing his little remaining calm. "I'm going to punch you. I seriously am."
"Dean, pull over. Let me drive," Sam says, his voice starting to harden.
"No," Dean grumbles, coughing. "This is your fault."
"This is not my fault," Sam argues. "Stop being immature."
"You said I would feel better, but no. I feel a hell of a lot worse."
"Pull over, Dean! I'm pretty sure you've got a fever, and I know you've got a headache."
"A headache which, by the way, is your fault!"
"Just pull over!"
Dean finally does, muttering curses under his breath. He scoots into the passenger seat while Sam jogs around to the driver's side.
"I almost drove off without you," he says as Sam gets settled.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam mutters, producing a blanket from somewhere and tucking it around Dean's shoulders. Dean glares at Sam and refuses to allow himself to snuggle under the blanket, no matter how warm and comforting it might be.
"This changes nothing," he announces, glaring at Sam.
"Uh-huh," Sam replies, pulling out onto the road again. "Sure."
"I'm serious," Dean grumbles, but the blanket does feel really nice…He settles into the seat a little more, his head resting against the window. Damn, it feels good.
"Uh-huh," Sam repeats, sliding a tape into the tape deck. The soothing tones of Metallica soon fill the car, and Dean catches himself drifting to sleep.
"Still mad at you," he mumbles tiredly. Sam revs the engine in reply, the deep rumble soothing Dean even further.
"Kay, maybe not mad," he says, sniffling. He's almost asleep when Sam says something else.
"You know, you're kinda cute when you sniffle like that."
"Don' press your luck," Dean mutters, flipping Sam off.
Sam laughs and turns up the music, and Dean doesn't fight the sleep that finally comes.